Scorpio Races: Eleanor
by PhoebeLovesSouffle
Summary: Eleanor is the daughter of Puck and Sean Kendrick: she's inherited her mother's strong mind and her father's way with horses. But she's yet to find her own place in the world, or place in Thisby. And she will go to great lengths to find it, and to find the person to spend her existence with. No matter what damage this causes to her.
1. The Chase

**A/N: So hey guys! I've recently read the Scorpio Races, had this idea and had to write it down :') It's written in the POV of Sean+Puck's daughter, Eleanor. That's all for now, so R&R? Thanks, and happy reading! Have a nice day **** I own nothing by the way! XD**

Eleanor

I press my ankles into Song's sides and push her into a brisk trot, of which I have no problem with. A morning gust stings my cheeks on the cliff top, and a heavy mist cloaks the beach; one which I know from my experience will lift, come midday.

Hopefully. Today is a good day for riding, and one that I don't want to miss. This is a day when I feel the heartbeat of Thisby pulse inside of me, and a rider's blood surge through my veins. It all I've ever lived for, loved for, this island: the way it works its way inside of my soul, and the way that it knows me better than I know even myself. For that is the unmistakable magic of Thisby. A magic only an islander can feel.

The wind whispers of Thisby. My Cappall Uisce screams longingly for its sea and its sand and its sky and its sand and to run free, anywhere. Just to run, free.

The trot progresses into a canter, which on a Cappall is an uneven pace, hardly recognisable being compared to the gait of the Island Ponies that bears the same name. Cantering is not enough though, today, Song is hungry for a gallop. When I lean down, I can see it in her eyes.

I imagine us as a blue-grey blur on the Cliff Top, hardly distinguishable from the rest of the foliage and slate that is scattered around. The tourists filtering in from the mainland for the races must be gawping, I can tell. The ways of Thisby are new to them.

As I urge Song into an urgent gallop, I hear my name carried on the wind. My mother.

"Eleanor Seren Kendrick!" she bellows. She never uses my full name, and certainly not in that voice. I tug on Song's reins and she tosses her head but slows reluctantly. We take the cliff path obediently and ride down to where my mother is waiting on Dove. The old dun mare shuffles nervously in the presence of my Cappall: no matter how many times she is introduced to her, she never quite seems to settle.

But my mother's tone is in no way furious.

"Malvern gave me a day off, it's the lead up to the races," she smiles, "He says he has too many people helping out, or something." I roll my eyes.

"I bet you're delighted to know that you're such a valued worker at that yard," I reply, sarcastically. I don't hate Malvern, but I don't like him either. However, he gives both of my parents a job, and for that, I should be eternally grateful. Many a time my mother has told me the story of when she won the races, and was allowed to keep her childhood home due to her immense winnings.

She chuckles. "You're just like me," she sighs, wistfully, "Anyway, want to go for a little gallop?"

"A _little _gallop?!" I splutter, "A gallop on a Cappall is hardly little!"

I think Song realises that she's about to get a run, because she suddenly becomes agitated, unable to keep still. I slacken her rein and let her bow her head, before digging my heels deep into her grey sides. She springs into action, and Dove soon follows, ears pricked but always wary of the sea.

And we're off.

Of course people recognise us; everyone on the island knows each other in some way. But the islanders almost respect us, especially my mother. But even though my mother proved that a woman _could_ win the races, no one has attempted it since. Thisby women are lazy.

We're caught up a mad chase, and all the while Song's eyes are fixated on the sea. But not once has she succumbed to its mesmerising trance, and for that, I'm proud of her. She is my horse, my mount, and my livelihood.

But the fact I cannot ignore is that she's not an island pony, like my mother's Dove.

Song is my monster. My monster of the sea.


	2. Bad Examples

**A/N: Okayyyy… So there weren't any reviews on the last chapter :L Imma carry on with this anyway… I think. Without further ado, here is chapter two! :D**

Eleanor

I remember the first day I rode a Cappall. I was younger than most, three years old to be exact, but with parents like mine, it could only be expected that they started teaching me how to ride one early.

The day was much like today. Heavy eyed, and late rising. The same mist draped the horizon, and the sea was energetic and lively, but not enticing to Corr, who I was about to ride. To him, this kind of sea was not irresistible. He could resist it quite easily.

And I also remember being perched on my father's back, as he wrestled with his mount to get him standing still on the cliff top. Corr was slightly wary of the ocean that day, but once he got used to it, he paid no attention to it. My father patted Corr's neck when he eventually settled.

As well as whispering in Corr's ear, my father whispered in mine. But unlike when he whispered to the horses, I could make out clearly what he was saying. "My little miracle Ellie," he spoke breathlessly, just before the wind stole the rest of his words and carried them off, down to the sands.

Those words were meant for _me_.

My fragile form was lifted from my father's shoulders and positioned on the stallion's back. He was strong beneath me, and I reached out to grasp the reins in my tiny hands, before my father hastily snatched them away and took them for himself. A three year old cannot control a Cappall Uisce, no matter what the circumstances.

He mounted and sat behind me, looping the reins over my head of deep ginger hair.

But I was not scared. I was fearless: because I did not know of the danger this monster posed to me.

Which meant I was also _so innocent. _

My father urged our mount on, and we were off, first walking briskly along the cliff, and then trotting, the most the eternally wounded Cappall could manage without keeling over in pain and screaming. Even I knew that the scream of a Cappall could ring in your ears long after it had been heard, for a Cappall's screams are not of this world. They belong in the ocean.

It felt like flying, whereas to my father, it must have felt like crawling. And ever since, I have treasured that memory; it reminds me of who I am. I'm a Thisby girl, raised with the horses. And there is nothing anyone can do to change that.

The chase is over, and I'm back to reality. I slow Song into a walk, which she has trouble keeping to wait for my mother on Dove to catch us up. And all the while, Song's eyes are fixed on the sea, and are brimming with longing for it; to be submerged beneath the waves. I quickly swivel her head, because a Cappall who wants the sea at this time of year can be fatal.

My mother comes cantering up behind us. She is panting, but smiling breathlessly at me, giddy with the thrill of the chase. Still, we do not say a word.

It is only when we're back at the small stable that has recently been constructed next to our house that she speaks. "Don't ride in the races this year, please," she mutters.

"Why not?!" I splutter, utterly confused at her comment.

"Your father told me you were planning to, and I heard you discussing it in the stable the other night with him," she continues, eyes bulging with concern, "Even though he does it every year, I try and persuade him not to. I try and forget the time that Dove and I won the races, but I can't. And do you know why I want to forget it?" She pauses and waits for me to shake my head. "Because men died for it, men that I knew. They were willing to risk their lives for a silly game."

My head is whirring with the unfairness of it all. My mother has ridden, and she can hardly say anything herself.

"This time next week, your father could be dead. I don't want to add you into that too."


	3. Breakdown

**A/N: Thank you to Mrs. Kendrick, the first reviewer! Please, if you read, will you review?! I'll give you a virtual November Cake… :3 Without further ado, chapter three! This might be a short one as I can feel a bit of Writers' block coming on… Hopefully it'll pass! XD Off we go! :P**

Eleanor

The only thing that can look me in the eyes at the moment is Song. I hope that those wild eyes of hers are full of sympathy, instead of hatred and malice directed at the human race, and longing for the sea. I feel my face crumple slowly.

_And still my mother does not speak._

That's because she knows I've been preparing for this moment all my life, and riding the bloodstained sands of Thisby ferociously in an attempt to practice for when I will finally be allowed to compete in the races. My father says yes, and the islanders are willing me to do it. The only thing stopping me is my mother. She's stubborn, a lot like me.

I clasp my head in my hands and fall down onto a hay bale in the shadows of Dove's stall. After years of knowing her, I don't trust Song enough to let me relax in her stall. She's still killed people. My blood and her lust for it must still be on her mind.

"I'm so sorry, Ellie," my mother begins, evidently not knowing where to start, "You must realise how hard it must be for me, mustn't you? Your father has been riding the races all his life; I can't get him to stop now. But you… You're young, Eleanor, and you haven't experienced the addictive thrill of the races. Once you do, you'll want it to happen all over again. That can't happen. Those horses could easily crush your skull."

I gaze up at my mother. Beady tears nestle in the corners of her eyes, which are as wide, as vast, and untameable as the oceans. My mother is a free spirit, like me.

But now, she is a free spirit that has been caged.

"I've been working up to this moment all my life!" I croak, "Those days when dad took me down to the beach to ride, have you thought all my life that has been for pleasure? NO! We were building my confidence up, for the day I would finally be allowed, by you, to ride!" My hopes have been shattered. It is an ugly feeling, walking on broken glass and treading lightly to prevent myself being hurt any further.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor," my mother whispers, "I can't lose you." She hangs Dove's saddle over her stall door, and disappears into the house.

I trace the outline of Dove's head when she's gone. Dove is an old horse, and from the amount of physical exercise we've just put her through, her veins are prominent. Her breathing is deep and her neck droops, but no matter how many times my mother has been advised to stop working her so hard, she has ignored their comments. I don't think she could bear to practically lose Dove to old age.

Another person she cannot bear to lose is me. I want to surrender myself to the ocean, or at least become bait on the back of a Cappall; the thrill of it is unmistakable. My mother is the only person standing in my way.


	4. Solutions?

**A/N: Hiiii guys! Thanks for clicking on this ;D Before we start, I'd just like to say a huge thank you to anyone who has read and reviewed my story! I know that 4 reviews might not be a lot for some other authors but me? I appreciate it hugely! Keep them coming guys! I love hearing your feedback you awesome people 3 If you review, I'll give you a shoutout on my Author's Note (:**

Eleanor

As the night intensifies, so does the rate at which my tears fall down my cheeks. At first, it was a steady flow, but now the amount of liquid that is trickling down my pale face is almost as cascading as a waterfall. _Stop it! _ I hiss to myself, _before it gets so cold that your tears freeze on your cheeks!_

I choose the appropriate moment to stop crying, because as I do, my dad peers around the door to the stable. He surveys me critically: I realise then that I must look a sorry sight. He does not normally see me curled up in a heap in the corner of the stable. Nor does he hear me cry.

Lucky thing I stopped before he could see me do such a thing. He's brought me up not to show much emotion in my face, which is what he does also. I show emotion through body language instead.

At least, I used to. I think my mother is softening me up.

Hastily, I unfurl my legs and rise to grab one of the grooming brushes. I know that he won't think I've been grooming for this long, but it's worth a try.

"Good day at work, dad?" I ask casually. He shakes his head, still deep in thought.

"Why were you curled up on the floor…?" He begins, yet I ignore him; though he simply repeats the question. "I'll say that again, Eleanor."

Uh-oh. He never calls me Eleanor; usually Ellie, or Nora. I'm in trouble.

"Why were you curled up on the floor?"

My father strides closer, but cautiously.

"I dropped my grooming brush!" I say, a little too defensively. All the while he raises an eyebrow.

"Do you really think I'd believe that?" he asks me, patronisingly, "You've got… Tear stains… On your cheeks." As he says that I wince, and it is then he knows that I've been lying to him.

"If you'd just give me a moment to explain-"

"You've got all the time in the world."

"Dad, I've been training all day. But when I got back, mum surprised me… Upset me, to say the least."

"I'm still waiting for the climax of the story," he mutters, fiddling with Dove's mane affectionately.

Before I break down, I blurt out, "She won't let me ride in the races!"

His face contorts into a look of utter despair. "We always said we'd do this together!" he moans, "It was me and you, in the races. We'd tell you that when you were young, and you really had your heart set on it, even when you were about three years old…"

"I know," I sob uncontrollably, not caring about his presence any longer, "I can't bear it. All the time I spent on the beach seems wasted now…"

My father wears a calculating look on his face, and I hope that he's working _something _out, perhaps a plan that will help me succeed in my mission to ride in the races. I can tell he wants me to, anyway.

"You really want this, don't you?"

I nod desperately.

"I can't bear to see you like this…" His lip quivers. And all the while, I keep a hopeful look in my eye.

"Get inside," he orders, and I have to obey, "I'll try and sort something out with your mother.


End file.
